


the caring and sharing of gambesons

by bansheesquad (deathwailart)



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Cold Weather, Established Relationship, Multi, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29606577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/bansheesquad
Summary: Maria's gambeson goes missing in the midst of a Masyaf winter, surely no one close to home could possibly be involvedOr: Altaïr just wants to sleep in the middle of the bed, that's all
Relationships: Malik Al-Sayf/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad/Maria Thorpe
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	the caring and sharing of gambesons

Winter hasn't ever been an official ceasefire to any hostilities, not unless the elements prevent the movements of armies and supply lines, but for as long as Altaïr can remember, Assassins return to Masyaf for the winter each and every year in their droves. Not all of them of course – Templars don't rest, conflicts continue, and missions take them far enough afield that they can't make the return journey in time or at all (Altaïr's been away for months at a time, hunkered down reliant on the kindness of strangers and allies, Malik too) - but enough to have the halls packed, the village below bustling where a soul can't hear themselves think at the market. The first winter, after the Nine, after Al Mualim, Altaïr scarcely recalls but this one is special; himself, Malik, Maria, the three of them together and the Brotherhood less a millstone about his neck. No less a heavy weight or responsibility but not his burden alone.  
  
Maria and Malik are with him this time. Masyaf and beyond are prospering—  
  
"Where is it?" Maria hisses, half in her robes, half out, dragging Altaïr from his thoughts as she tears through the heavy chest at the foot of the bed, contents spilling out over the side onto the floor.  
  
Malik, Altaïr notices, is already gone, probably to avoid whatever this becomes because Maria isn't enjoying her first winter here or not privately at least and they've duties enough between them at the best of times as it is. (Altaïr doesn't pretend to know all her struggles, not who she was and who she is but her understands as best he can that she's a different woman to the world than she is behind a closed door or the private company of the three of them.) Complaining too much or too little in the army would've drawn attention. Now? Now she's more licence to speak her mind.  
  
Such as this moment, him lacing his boots with extra socks beneath to ward off the chill. Masyaf is a draftier place to spend the whole day than he remembers it being as a boy but then again, he wasn't sitting around as much as he does these days even if it felt endless at the time, learning his letters, his history, studying maps until he saw them in his sleep. The maps, he supposes, haven't changed. Only the disputes over them. The armies.   
  
The Apple.  
  
"Altaïr!" A pillow hits the wall – close enough to have intent, wide enough for him to know it was never meant to hit him – and up he looks. Maria glowering at him from across the room, still in the under layers of her robes and what a temptation it is, to see her like that, to not walk her back towards the bed. They've responsibilities. Malik will have something to say and probably have Altaïr watch or overhear later as penance though Altaïr's never been strictly opposed. That and Maria is glowering like she might take his head off.  
  
Besides, she's still waiting for an answer because him looking at her fondly and stupidly doesn't count. "Yes, Maria," he replies, finishes tying the knot then lifts the pillow just to be safe. "Where's what?"  
  
"My gambeson. The blue one."  
  
"In the armoury?" It's the only place he can think of, the only one that makes any sort of sense – a gambeson is armour, if it's not here then that's where it must be.  
  
"No, that's where the other two are for training and drills. Frozen solid by now…It's why I keep this one in here."  
  
Both of them try and fail not to shudder at a reminder of how ineffectual the fires are where they all change for training, an ever more laborious task despite the fires kept burning at all hours at Ra'uf's insistence. Sooner or later it'll be exercises to go cut down more trees and haul them back for firewood at the rate they're going.  
  
"Maybe some of the study rooms though…no, we had to move extra braziers in."  
  
She sighs through her nose. "I'll check again, maybe I set it down to stitch it, I've had the blasted thing long enough now it needs it but having a dry one…"  
  
"I'll keep an eye," he offers and she smiles tightly at him.  
  
"You'd better. Off you go, I'm sure you've plenty to keep you out of trouble for the day, I'll catch up."  
  
He gives her a nod, fastens his belt in place and pulls up his hood out the door. Curious to misplace a gambeson but by the time he sits down with the Apple after meeting with other Assassins and some who've ventured up from the village below he's already put the matter out of his mind. Who hasn't sworn a thing is lost only to find it again later?   
  


* * *

  
  
Altaïr's spent hours trying and failing to match the map from the Apple to their records in Masyaf as he's done every place he's stopped in his travels, letters sent out far and wide in the vain hope that someone, somewhere, can send him something to aid his studies, and his temples are drawn tight when his stomach lurches from empty to a nausea that sends a sweat down his spine despite the chill. He has to steady himself against the desk before he can leave in search of food which leads him to Malik in the end.  
  
Malik in a gambeson. Maria's gambeson. Sleeve pinned out of the way.  
  
"Not a word," Malik says which yes, fine, he understands well enough: they all have their pride and no one knows that more than Altaïr himself. He'd never have put Malik down for a thief but the surprise pleases him anyway.  
  
"I want to sleep in the middle of the bed," Altaïr replies which is the best place to sleep in the winter and where Altaïr gravitates naturally; Maria wants to be in reach of her sword at all times which he's sure is an army relic with something more she's unwilling to discuss and Malik gets claustrophobic trapped between tangled limbs in the night. "How have you avoided Maria?" is what Altaïr asks because he's a sensible man these days who knows how to pick his battles.  
  
"I've been an Assassin longer." There's nothing arrogant, only a quiet statement of fact.   
  
Still, Altaïr gives him a gentle kick on the ankle seeing as he's busy putting the dishes down. "Only so many places to hide."  
  
Malik shrugs, the folded sleeve flapping with the motion as he reaches for to take a bite of Altaïr's maqloouba without any hesitation. "I have my ways."  
  
"I'm not about to tell her, I just—" he takes a bite himself, chewing and gesturing with both hands until he splits the flatbread for both of them. "It's just that I remember what you said before. Multiple times. About the gambeson."  
  
"Altaïr—"  
  
"So to find you wearing it now—"  
  
"Altaïr!" Malik interrupts, not angry but that edge of irritation that would have seen him chased out of a bureau before. "I'll stroll past Maria wearing it if you keep this up to see you sleeping atop the battlements."  
  
Altaïr's had threats levelled against him many times but Malik grinning across the table from him, sharing lunch, in Maria's gambeson sends a particular chill down the spine.  
  
They eat in silence, the tightness in Altaïr's stomach disappearing bit by bit with every mouthful. Odd to think they had more time for this when they made their way to Masyaf than they seem to now with something that demands the immediate attention of at least one of them whenever a chance for quiet threatens.  
  
"You're spending a great deal of time with the Apple." Malik says after a while the way he might comment on a loose stirrup in need of stitching or a missed step in drills but they've known each other too many years: nothing is ever so mild with Malik.  
  
"Are there councils that you and Maria keep that I'm not privy to?"  
  
Malik raises an eyebrow and Altaïr wants to take the words back or to have them come out some other way, to not snap at the very least. There are moments – rare, fleeting, but just enough to pass comment on – that come after long hours with the Apple that see his temper fraying about the edges, someone almost but not quite as impatient and prone to casual, ignorant cruelties without meaning to slipping through the cracks that remain.  
  
"I didn't think we needed your permission." Malik takes a moment before he speaks, a long one. He doesn't rise to the bait.  
  
Altaïr drops his head, palms up. "Forgive me, I've no excuse."  
  
Malik reaches out, the thick weave of the gambeson rasping across the table as he takes Altaïr's hand in his. "You need to remove your head from your backside. And the Apple. Remember to eat and drink. Maria and I don't wish to conspire behind your back."  
  
"Might be awkward at present given—" he tugs the sleeve between fore and middle finger for emphasis.  
  
"Maybe. We'll see."  
  
"So long as I sleep in the middle."  
  
"How warm is the middle of the bed if you're there alone, I wonder?"  
  
Altaïr pulls a face and Malik laughs, patting his hand. "See? You learn how it works even if you're slower than a mule headed to the market some days. But I have work to do – finish that," Malik nods at the food before them, " and not a word."  
  
Using the leverage he has, he pulls Malik into a kiss, slow and deep, fingers of his free hand tangling in his hair, nipping at Malik's bottom lip as he pulls away. "Maria's putting a group through their paces on the side battlements," he tells Malik.  
  
Malik leans in again, another kiss, brief than before that just about covers his groan of displeasure even if he's the instigator the second time. "I've work to do."  
  
"Something to keep you warm."  
  
There's a laugh, surprised, a half-strangled groan that escapes as Malik leaves the table and adjust the gambeson before he stops in the doorway to look back over his shoulder. "Why do I put up with you."  
  
It's not a question. Just fondness that tugs low in Altaïr's belly to have him settling comfortably at the table with his legs stretched out before him to finish his meal but he answers anyway: "Because you love me."  
  


* * *

  
  
"Come here," Altaïr tells Maria when he finds her with cheeks raw from the brutal cold taking her wind-chapped hands between his to chafe some warmth and life back into them.  
  
"You might've warned me," Maria complains as she buries her hiss against him where his robes can be parted easily at the throat to tuck her face where he's warm; he knows that chill, how it stings when the blood rushes back.  
  
Her knuckles are stiff and slow to move, still half-curved how they would have been about a sword-hilt. Hours on weapons, correcting grip, posture, stance.  
  
A long day.  
  
"You've wintered in the Holy Land before," he says.  
  
Maria's laugh is a huff of breath against him, her nestling that last half inch closer. Closer again when Malik – gambeson conspicuously absent – brackets her against Altaïr as another barrier to the wind that's howled through every nook and cranny of Masyaf the past three days now. No one can spy them up here by the guttering brazier and if Malik's here, no one's likely to come looking. Altaïr lifts a brow; Malik ignores it choosing instead to press a kiss to the crown of Maria's head. Gambeson hidden, he guesses, and he hides his smile lest he disturb the peace.  
  
Maria dislodges her face so she might speak, the first few attempts lost to her chattering teeth. "Different in tents. Crammed in. Forget about space between bedrolls. No one—no one cared if you'd rather bunk with the horses, I think," she huffs another breath, steadier than the first, "some envied you if you had stable duty."  
  
"Same on watch." Malik's words are almost stolen by the wind. "What was it when we were younger Altaïr? No one minded a hand between a brother or a sister?"  
  
It loses something in the translation – English for Maria, a steady rotation between that, Arabic and French for all three of them to be comfortable – but he nods. Close enough.  
  
"Is there where I learn all the sordid tales of your youth?" Maria cranes her neck to look back at Malik.  
  
"Maybe you could ask Abbas." Malik is pushing his luck and he knows it when he says that considering the secret Altaïr's helping him to keep but it's just as terribly devious a thing to say when Altaïr's cornered as he is right now.  
  
" _No_!"  
  
"You don't have to sound so delighted!" Altaïr protests though he doesn't drop Maria's hands – he's not some sort of monster – and Malik's arm is about him too, rubbing the small of his back and he understands these days the scholars who vexed him years ago, so slow to rise when he put in a request, and now look at him becoming one of them—  
  
"I'm not delighted."  
  
"I was when I heard."  
  
"Well no one would be surprised: if the choice is frostbite or sharing a bedroll then not even Abbas is so spiteful."  
  
There's a long silence. Maria's shoulders are shaking. _Malik's_ shoulders are shaking.  
  
"You think _I_ would be so spiteful?"  
  
Maria turns to stifle her laughter in Malik's shoulder, an entirely wasted effort when he's laughing hard enough that his eyes are creased in the corners, tears gathering. Altaïr stalks off with what remains of his wounded dignity, a plot in his head; there are only so many places where Malik can work alone and undisturbed without a knock from Altaïr or Maria first, quiet as he'd tail any target in search of his prize.  
  


* * *

  
  
Altaïr's stitching the hem of his robes – long overdue as a consequence of putting it off for something else he might be doing unless he's travelling – when he becomes aware of someone at the bottom of the stairs, just beyond the edge of his vision from the bench. He keeps going, listening for footsteps until Malik appears, a rolled up map in hand to add to the shelf above Altaïr's head. He's frowning but there are any number of reasons Malik might be frowning, that's his resting expression most of the time, so he keeps stitching and runs a finger over the work to check that it's even enough for his taste and finishes it off. He's lost track of the number of repairs made to this particular set of robes and this is probably the last round of patching he can get away with but they'll last out the winter at the very least and for that he's grateful.  
  
Malik is still putting the map away. Rummaging around a few inches away from Altaïr's head. It really shouldn't take so long to put something so simple as a map away.  
  
"Problem?"  
  
"No, just—looking for something."  
  
"Can I assist?"   
  
Malik looks down at him. Altaïr doesn't recall Malik's' father much at all but he heard the stories of the war hawk and it must be his gaze, sharp and assessing, levelled at Altaïr now, the sort of look that would turn the bowls of lesser men to water, the last thing they might ever see before the hidden blade or the throwing knife.  
  
"I'm sure it'll turn up," Malik replies at last when he doesn't find what he's looking for on the shelf or Altaïr's face.  
  
"I said as much to Maria about her gambeson. Again." Even found himself roped into the search after saying so though that he doesn't bother telling Malik who might well know. Malik narrows his eyes again. "She's still looking for it too, you might want to take care. But if you've anything needs stitching or mending then I'm catching up."  
  
Malik stares at him, jaw working. Altaïr pats the pile beside him with a smile.  
  
"Good to know. I'll see you later, work to do."  
  
Altaïr nods, watches him go and returns to a shirt that all three of them share whose original owner he can't remember, washed enough that the colour has long since faded, a hole in the collar in need of repair. He's only just done when Maria appears, taking a seat at his side just where Malik had been with a few items in her lap.  
  
"Found that hood you never got around to finishing if you're master seamstress for the day."  
  
"Ah! Where did you find it?"  
  
"At the very bottom of the chest, found it when I was hunting for the gambeson and ended up unearthing all manner of things the three of us really need to spend some time going through."  
  
Altaïr nods though he wonders what state the room is in now if she's made another attempt. "Still no luck?"  
  
"No." Her jaw tightens then relaxes. "How many places could it be? It's a gambeson not a ring or a thimble."  
  
"Very few." She sighs through her nose at his words, tapping her heel against the floor until he still her with a hand on her knee. "I'll look a madwoman if I go door to door asking after its whereabouts but what options do I have left?"  
  
"These things turn up." And he looks to his lap to make the point, adjusting the pile he's working on, Maria's eyes following.  
  
"An unfinished hood is far from a gambeson however." She waits, expectant, but there's no answer Altaïr has for her so he shrugs: _who is to say_. "I'll take your word for it, not much else I can do right now can I? I'm meeting Malik; don't be late tonight."  
  
"I won't," he promises and she takes him by the chin for a kiss; she's the Master's wife after all, she's the right to have his affections at her leisure and he has to catch himself when she ends it and takes her leave of him. " _I won't_ ," he says again.  
  
Maria turns at the top of the stairs to smile at him over her shoulder but there's something lurking there, tucked in the corner of her mouth, a question, but she doesn't ask and it'll take more to catch him out in the first place.  
  
After all, he has to know what all the fuss is about for himself.  
  


* * *

  
  
"You!"  
  
Maria and Malik accuse him at once when they arrive because there are few whispers that don't reach Altaïr's ears; delaying them both to have them arriving after him and together is a small thing (petty, maybe, he's sure that accusation will be laid at his feet but that's far from the worst thing he's ever been called in his life so far). Their room is tidy now after the most recent spate of gambeson hunting on Maria's part minus whatever Maria means for them to sort through – the things thrown in the chest after travels they promise to deal with later and never do – tucked into a corner, Altaïr's sewing tucked away, the desk cleared, candles flickering despite best efforts to block all possible drafts by the window shutters.   
  
Altaïr is stretched out in the middle of the bed with a book, boots off, clad only in linen trousers.  
  
And, of course, the gambeson.  
  
The garment is unquestionably, and to him, unforgivably, bulky, an item that sacrifices a great many things he takes for granted, honed through years of training for protection alone. But he's warm, he can't deny. Nor can he deny the joy at the looks they're giving him and each other.  
  
"Which one of you?" Maria demands, the first of the pair to snap to attention and speak, locking the door as she does.  
  
Altaïr turns a page and looks at Malik again, watching him trying to work it out – when Altaïr had the opportunity, how he found the hiding place – as Maria closes the distance, plucking the book from Altaïr's hand. (Gently, some would have his head if he returned any borrowed item damaged, especially one rescued from the fires of Jubair al Hakim.)  
  
"You can read about poisons any other evening when I've not spent a week and more hunting high and low for _my_ gambeson," Maria smacks his chest and even through the protection currently provided, he feels it, rolling out of the way though not fast enough, "that you're wearing," she swats again, not angry – he knows Maria angry – but far from pleased.  
  
Malik's smirking, kneeling on the bed now to cut off Altaïr's escape with too much satisfaction for a thief so Altaïr does the only thing he can, swinging up to catch Malik's hand and flip their positions, pinning him neatly. Malik tries to twist free but Maria, intrigued Altaïr assumes, is at his back.  
  
At an impasse.  
  
Her lips at the back of his neck, the hand not at the small of his back reaching around to tip Malik's chin up to face her.  
  
"I'm expecting an answer from one of you since I appear to have a couple of thieves in my bed, in the depth of winter too."  
  
"Is a thief who stole from a thief—" Altaïr ventures only to be cut off.  
  
"Yes." An emphatic yes from both of them.  
  
"He's still a thief," Malik adds, indignant though in little hurry now to move as he looks past Altaïr to Maria. "This one wanted to stay in the middle."  
  
"Did he? Well, he's there right now, isn't he?"  
  
"He is, so I suppose he needn't keep it on."  
  
"It's my understanding," Maria's voice is closer than before and he lets go of Malik's wrist, startled, "that thieves are relieved of their ill-gotten gains."  
  
That's all the warning he gets before they're unbuckling the gambeson between them, pushing it off and down his shoulders; he shivers and Maria presses her lips between his shoulders before she drops the gambeson off the edge of the bed. He must miss some look or gesture that passes between her and Malik because they're rearranging after that and it's easier to undress themselves when the room is so cold that no one wants to be bare for long, Altaïr grabbing the blankets to cover them as soon as everyone is naked and safely beneath them. It must be awkward for Maria to lean over him the way she does to kiss Malik but Altaïr steadies her with a hand that he trails down to the small of her back and lower, close enough to hear the little gasp.  
  
"This is-" Altaïr manages as Malik breaks apart from Maria to nip his way down Altaïr's throat to his chest, "now how guards treat thieves."  
  
"I think you forget yourself," Malik says grinning up at him, sharp and bright as Maria catches Altaïr's hands above his head (they'd learned early on that not only was she strong enough to do it and keep him there, but just how much he happened to enjoy it) and slips a thigh between his that he arches into. Or attempts to, there's little room for him to manoeuvre between the two of them.  
  
"You're at the mercy of assassins," Maria tells him, her hair loose – he missed that happening and she knows he loves to run his fingers through it, this is astonishingly cruel – as she leans down to pick up where Malik left off until he forgets how to think, fingers flexing uselessly in her grip.  
  
There's something about being taught a lesson, one that he won't soon forget and someone (Malik he thinks, he's not good at acting a part for long, not like this) laughing against his hip and more kissing as Altaïr agrees breathlessly.  
  


* * *

  
  
He does, as it stands, end up in the middle of the bed. And them.   
  
Sleeping however—  
  
Well there are glances plenty when the Master misses the morning bells and is closer to lunch by the time he finally emerges the next morning but Maria is good enough to wrap him up in the warmth of her gambeson when they're alone in the study, Malik has made tea for the three of them, and Altaïr keeps any comments about lessons learned to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> End notes:  
> I know that a gambeson is not actually the medieval/Crusades equivalent of a hoodie but I do not care when I can write self-indulgent fic where both boyfriends will steal the hoodie of their jacked girlfriend.  
> The Book on Poisons and on the Repelling of their Harmful Effects by [Jabir ibn Hayyan](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jabir_ibn_Hayyan) is the book referenced because I am incapable of ending up in a wiki-hole when it comes to researching history.  
> [Source](http://factsanddetails.com/world/cat55/sub359/entry-5913.html) for the food research


End file.
